


Shift in Horizons

by BreadedAndFried



Category: CountryHumans, Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: 2nd person POV, Gen, Genderless depictions of countries, Mild-medium swearing, Near Future, Russia is super friggen huge, i will add characters and tags and whatnot as story continues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21769603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreadedAndFried/pseuds/BreadedAndFried
Summary: Waking from a deep slumber, a pitch black limbo of emptiness and blurry peace, shifts into a pale grey film of uncertain but grave world of decisions and actions.The fog of a surreal dream world lingers, even as the body rises from still dormancy.Everything feels fake: as if it’ll fade into the harsh, bone chilling winds, even with the softest of touches.What’s real?Who can you rely on?Can old wounds stop oozing and finally scab over and mend?Your future is uncertain, but all you can do is walk forward and try your best, keep your chin up, your loved ones close, be above reproach, and not get distracted by silly things like crushes and drama.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for how absolutely horrible this is :’)
> 
> ALSO  
> DIALOGUE IN BRACKETS ([]) MEANS IT CAN BE LITERALLY ANYTHING BESIDES ENGLISH.  
> THIS CHAPTER IT IS JUST RUSSIAN, BUT IT JUST MEANS IT MAY NEED CONTEXT CLUES TO DEDUCT THE DIALECT.

I

The dark nothingness gradates slowly into a pale, soft grey light. It holds a touch of warmth as it casts itself about the colorless room, a ray or two slipping through the half-heartedly opened blinds, catching where your blurred mind unsurely concludes you lay. 

Your eyelids can barely lift themselves, and you’re not even sure that it’s not just your imagination or your mind tricking you into thinking you’re awake while in actuality, you’re still dreaming. A crust feels to have formed over your eyes(and groggy mind) and your entire body feels stiff and long dormant. With much effort, a blurry, deep blue hand comes into your upward field of vision. You turn it about, squinting your eyes and blinking to try and bring it into focus. Your eyebrows are knit together over the bridge of your nose, although even that seems to be a difficult task. It becomes a bit more crisp to look at, but you give up trying to make it perfect and rub your gross-feeling face. 

A dry, dusty film comes off at your touch and you promptly have a string of sneezes as you wipe off your face a bit. Your body instinctively props itself up a little so you don’t sneeze while on your back and you find yourself sitting on the side of your mattress, which is indented with a rough, plush silhouette of yourself, sniffing and rubbing your face with the back of your hand.  
Not a fantastic idea, since that’s also coated in dust, but it’s fine. You manage, even in your tunnel visioned, head throbbing, weak-kneed state. The next,... what feels like a couple minutes, is occupied by you brushing yourself off and becoming more awake by the minute. Naturally, you mumble things to yourself underneath your breath, noticing just barely that your voice sounds terribly thick and raspy. It has that quality of added depth and lifelessness that seems to occur when you wake up from a deep slumber. 

You sigh and glance at the small, black and boxy digital clock that lays itself on top of your dresser. 

Blank. 

The bright, red, linear numbers don’t appear on the small screen and you find yourself staring at it for,  
Awhile.  
You poke at it, your finger just having a circle of grime where you touched it, hangover medication bottle also falling over and spilling out white, round pills all over your dresser, and thankfully not your floor.  
Still, no luck. 

Shrugging and thick-fingeredly picking up the pills as best you can without contaminating them with your hand grime and/or the grime on the dresser, you trudge out of your bedroom door and into your apartment’s restroom. Your socks feel absolutely disgusting but it’s not like you care. You’ll mess with them later.  
You do whatever you need to, not worrying that the handle is not working as it should, and go to wash your hands. The sink handle pops up when you push it, but no water comes from the nozzle. You lower the lever up and down a few times, sometimes slower, sometimes faster. You hear yourself click your tongue softly in disdain and not being able to sooth your parched throat or wash your face. And wash your hands. Your back pops and cracks in complaint as you bend over to prop yourself on the floor. You’re not sure your legs can handle a squat yet, so sitting is your safest option. To get a better view of the plumbing and pipes under the counter, you move a toiletry or two aside onto the cold tile, along with two small cardboard boxes of ammunition, both for different models of firearms. Leaning over your folded legs, you eye the dark darkness, a few white PVC pipes curled over like a bendy straw being what you aim to examine. Stiffly, you shift yourself a bit to have a better view. One of the synthetic elbow pieces nearer the top is unscrewed with your hand and you peer in. 

Bone dry; just as everything else in this dusty environment. 

You sigh, seeing as your plumbing’s been cut off for at least a good chunk of time. Look, rent is kind of hard to keep up with nowadays, okay? Ah well. ‘Guess you need to find a drink some other way.  
You end up disinfecting your hands with a cloth and some witch-hazel. Desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s not like you own hand sanitizer or could wet one of those napkin thingys they give you to clean off your hands before you eat. It gets the job done and that’s more than enough for you.

You make note to keep up with storing emergency water again. 

You trudge into the kitchen, yawning a bit as you do so. Scratching the back of your neck, you look around at the dinky cabinets and dated appliances. It’s not like you care your fridge is from before the ‘70’s. If it works, it works. You’re not complaining. It’s simple, and it’s home. 

Aforementioned fridge is pulled by a handle and opened, in hopes of finding a beverage of sorts(much preferably water). 

Aaaaaand it’s empty.

Fantastic. 

The orangey-yellow light doesn't even flicker on when you open it.  
Heck, it’s not even cold!  
At least it doesn’t smell all too bad. Rotting food is one of the only smells that are difficult for you to handle. Fermented is different, but there’s not a strong fragrance of that either. 

Eyebrows furrowing and rubbing the back of your neck, you look around your kitchen a bit more, scrounging for some kind of food, as your stomach feels just as hallow as your thirst, for any kind of consumible beverage. 

Nothing. Not even a can of pashtet. 

At the very least, your small, measly collection of dishes are still here. Hoorah.

Even your little assortment of cleaning supplies are gone. Your kitchen is essentially empty, besides some supplies and appliances, and you’re left a bit confused, but your mind is currently not fast enough to come to any kind of conclusion. 

After, you change your socks, your clothes not being as dusty as the rest of the loft. Despite a moth bite here and there, your repelant seems to have worked relatively well. A pair of nice, well loved pair of socks is pulled out and you slip them onto your now bare feet.  
You’ll clean yourself up later, once you get access to running water again. For now, you’re going to go out and find something to drink. And hopefully something to eat, too. 

The knife you always carry on you is tucked securely into your pocket, hidden from ordinary view. It’s the day, so you only think briefly about bringing a concealed firearm with you. As you stand in front of your front door, fishing in the drawer of the small wooden heirloom single standing table, your hand brushes against the M9 you keep on you a lot of the times, but instead your hand closes around the fake-gold-painted house keys. You drop them in your sweat pant pockets and you slip your feet into some tennis shoes. You grab your faithful ushanka and beat a bit of dust out of it before donning it. 

The sun is pale and bright, it’s brilliant light not making many shadows. The Soviet-era “commieblock” you call home, is one of a few in the area, a bit of other strips of buildings being built between them, connecting them into a woven network of strip malls and modern conveniences. Some of the older parts of the complex were torn down and replaced with a newer generation style of housing. Despite this, the “modern” seems to have finally fallen behind the times, as you observe the scene painted out in front of you. Greenery of many kinds cover practically every surface and concrete has broken and crumbled apart in many places. 

It’s quiet. 

Very quiet. 

An eerie silence causes a faint ringing in your ears, and it stimulates your senses a touch, causing your hackles to rise and your guard to be pushed up a tad, despite your still lullabied and sleepy state of being. 

Your feet drag against the concrete and scattered gravel and is the only comfort, along with the whistling of the wind, besides the silence. 

Where is everyone?

You’ve never seen this place so,  
Deserted. 

Sure, maybe asleep and a bit inactive, but never void of any kind of life in the slightest. 

You peer into a small shop, with a now broken in window, where the local Babushka adopted you a bit as her own and would always greet you with a kiss on the cheek(you always have to lean down considerably for her to be able to peck you from on her tippy toes) and some kind of treat. The last time you remember her giving you some delicious blackberry jam, which is among your favorites.  
Her friendly greeting is missed and your heart feels a little sad and empty.  
You inspect the entrance, the door being blown off its hinges violently, seemingly forcefully and on purpose. Shattered glass lays about and you step carefully, even with padded shoes. The shelves are empty of product, a thick layer of dust acting as a nice down winter blanket. The usually locked cabinets behind the cashier's counter have been broken in, all of its contents gone. Broken fiberglass lays about, mixed with plaster, fragments of metal, and glass. Not even Babushka’s cat bed for her fluffy, soft rag doll is here. 

A splash of color catches your eye. A deep, faded, maroon one, to be exact. 

Blood hasn’t bothered you all too much since your younger days: it's everything else that can(strong emphasis on “can”) upset you. But now, as you carefully but purposefully, and rather quickly, push aside rubble to inspect the tainted flooring, worry ebbs and flows like breathing, the breathes becoming more shallow and rushed with every exhale. 

With shaking, white-tipped fingers, your warm hand rubs against the cold floor.  
You had already guessed by the color that it was long dry, but it never hurts to confirm. The pigment has already lost its luminescence and has faded to a deep brown, almost black.  
Worry has full on seized you, even as you try to calm your frazzled nerves.  
Your breaths become purposefully longer, deeper, in an attempt to lower your heart rate and steady your shaking breaths.  
You know the people around these parts. They’re good, hardy people. A little skirmish is nothing to worry about. They’re most likely fine, chums and comrades of roots deeper than what a little spilled pomegranate juice can tear. The question is, where are they going on and being friends at? How did all of this happen in the night you were asleep? 

You’re still perplexed, going through the many racing thoughts in your head as you squat on the floor of the small shop. You decide to come back later, once you’ve found a drink, knowing of the hiding place the key to Babushka’s house is, but hesitating at the thought of possibly invading her privacy.  
Carefully, and without hitting your head on the doorframe, you make your way outside again. 

Same as before. 

You don’t know what you were expecting, honestly. 

Maybe someone was playing some kind of joke or some kind of futuristic simulation fever-dream? Maybe you are still asleep and just need to wait it out. Sure, you’ll do that. 

As the thought, “It’s a nice day for a walk,” passes through your head as you look around and up into the grey heavens, the sheet of nimbostratus kisses your face with a thick, wet drop, right below your right eye. You instinctively flinch a little, From surprise, but you honestly like the rain. You’re not entirely sure how the next few hours are going to go, if you can’t find some kind of water, but you find an old, broken vodka bottle, rub out the inside with a few raindrops that landed in there with your shirt, and leave it out to collect some cloud tears.  
And with that, you slide into an indoor shopping complex that attaches to an apartment building. 

It’s just what you imagined it to be: dead. Void of any kind of life other than unkept vegetation.  
You find a bit more supplies in here than outside, if you count untouched teddy bears, old, unopened make-up, and ceiling fans still in the box to be “supplies”. You don’t find much here, to your disappointment. Just a chilly, musty feeling atmosphere and the uninterrupted and monotonously rhythmic tapping of your feet on hard tiled slabs.

Well this is boring. It’s not like you have a watch or anything to tell the time with. Oh wait, you have a cell phone.  
You pull out your trusty Nokia. 

“[10:32, Tuesday, 2025  
20°c - feels like 19°, 70% chance of perspiration]”

What. 

You smack the side of it with the palm of your hand, in hopes of clearing the glitch, but the old tank of a machine is unfazed.  
You shrug and put it away, knowing it’s an old driver and it’s bound to have some hiccups.  
Smartphones are overrated.  
You’re surprised there is even satellite forecasting around here, considering how empty and desolate these parts seem to be. Maybe since it’s satellite…? Who knows. You have more prominent issues to worry about. 

You decide to swing by the Adidas outlet and see if there are any duffle bags you can snag. You need a new one, since the Ukraine “borrowed” it and returned it on fire and with questionable substances keeping the flames alive. They flipped you off while they drove away in their old sedan, for good measure. 

The whole shop is bone dry. Not a product in sight. Whatever happened here, your friends decided they needed to do it in style, which you can’t blame them for. 

You sigh, and head across the “street” to another shop and find a suitable bag you like. There is no one to pay, so you fish out the money, forcefully open the cash drawer, put your colorful, crumpled up bills in the empty container and decide to leave a note. You find some receipt paper and an old, crusty pen and scribble, saying that you bought a bag and where the money is. 

Satisfying your conscience, you decide to head back to that broken vodka bottle. All of the perishable foods, especially beverages of all kind, have been mass evacuations to who-knows-where, so it’s probably best you refresh yourself now and work from there. 

Yawning and toying with the tag attached to the bag that preaches its retail price, you trudge, still sleepily to your recon area. The rain has been coming down for a bit, and your glass is overflowing. You don’t trust your lips all too much to be pressed against shattered glass just yet in your state, so you do what you’ve heard be called something along the lines of “water fall”, where the cup is held above, not touching your mouth, and letting gravity pour it. You feel a tad ridiculous doing it, but it’s not like there’s anyone here to see you do it.  
Although it’s awkward to swallow, the cold, clear, and from your estimation, clean enough water, tastes like heaven. It even has that sweet taste like that of plain water when drunk in the middle of the night. 

The rain showers down on your face, as you turn upward, your eyes closed and relaxed, like the rest of your being. The little, cold pellets awaken your senses just a little, bringing a bit of life into your thick, stiff fingers. You sigh, enjoying feeling something so real legitimately bombard your skin, picking at your nerves like a stringed instrument.  
A rusty, cracked open gutter gushes water into the street, it’s roaring noise sputtering and splaying into the street government-manufactured gutters. There’s some junk clogging the water flow, from alcohol bottles to legitimate trash. A metal beam catches your eye and you find yourself squatting in a thunderstorm, soaking wet, poking at rubbish to try and get it to go with the water, into the water way.  
You’re living the life.  
In all seriousness, these are the kind of things you live for: the simple stuff. Life is rough and it can be hard to enjoy the now.  
You’re not too thrilled to be going back into “society”, just yet.  
For now, you’re just going to keep poking at garbage. 

Once you get bored of the heap of rubbish, you use the metal piece as a walking stick and decide to explore. You’re thirst is quenched, for the time being, although you take note to swing by your place and grab your stainless steel canteen, next time you’re there.  
For now, you use an old wine bottle, filled with rain water, as a temporary water bottle. You carefully prop and attach it to your bag, not wanting to break it and get it wet or get the glass everywhere. Shattered glass is a pain to clean up. Sometimes a bit too literally. You look at your right hand’s middle finger and your mouth twists at the scar. The bag is dry, since you left it underneath an overhang of a strip mall, and you’re off. 

The silence has become a bit more bearable, the more you are in it. It still feels, far too quiet, but it doesn’t give you as many goosebumps as before.  
You hum a favorite hymn of yours, remembering you’re friends and loved ones, and the community you had built around yourself.  
The song is based off a proverb of old, written from a place of melancholy and depravity, but with eyes gazing hopefully into the future, a sense of peace and opportunity bringing forth a shift of atmosphere.  
You feel it can apply to yourself a bit, as of the moment. But rather than sadness, it’s more of a feeling of confusion and worry. Albeit, you’re most likely hiding it considerably well from the outside glance. Still, hope and zeal line your steps and you keep your head up, as you gaze around. 

Your favorite hat swings loosely by your side, your hand lightly clutching it as it drips water into the dry, cracked pavement.  
It’s still pouring considerably outside, but you’re being protected by the roof over your head, as you waltz through a parking deck.  
No cars, in case you were curious. 

B15.  
You open the thick, metal door by pushing and look around the area, metal pipe you’ve named “Pavel”, acting like a walking stick for the blind, pushing on ahead of you and finding a suitable path.  
“[Well, my friend,]” you’ve began to talk to your pipe, as if it’s a fellow adventurer and your companion, “[there does not seem to be anything here, either. Ah well, let’s keep going up.]” Hearing no objection from ‘Pavel’, you do as you say you would. 

B16 - the last floor.  
“[Curses. Nothing.]” You sigh and look about. It’s the same as everything else: baren. You’re honestly not sure what this building was supposed to be. It never was finished. You remember it being worked in for a bit, recalling hearing something about it being an office building, or something along those lines. All there is, is bare concrete, and huge, boxy support beams.  
Hm.  
Same as all of the other floors. 

You set Pavel aside, leaning him against the door, as you feel your hat and knead the fur to see if it’s wet.  
Eh, dry enough. You place it on your head and pick up Pavel again.  
“[Onto the roof, dear companion!]” You use him like a sword, declaring your plan in short orders, telling your lines of men to advance into a treacherous and bound to be an epic battle.  
You feel like a total dork and try to suppress a grin, only for it to instead come out as a chuckle to yourself. Ah, you are the funniest person you know; you get all of your jokes!  
Pavel makes no comment. He is the strong, silent type. Usually that is your title, but he swipes it right out from under you. It’s not that you don’t like people, quite the opposite. You just don’t feel like wasting your breath around Westerners a lot of the time. So set on their own ways, always so self absorbed. Never open to anything you have to say. Why bother? They’ll make fun of you and belittle your abilities, anyway. 

The door creaks open, loudly declaring your entrance. It slams shut loudly as you let it close, leaving it behind to look out on top of one of the tallest buildings in the area. A slight knot of worry twists itself in your stomach as you approach the edge of the roof. You ignore it and look out, taking yet another swig of your make-do water bottle.  
The wind is strong, whistling by and making fake conversation with each other. They gossip to each other in low wails and moans, probably about the weirdo who decided to stand on top of a building and pose like a wannabe superhero. 

The-  
Wannabe superhero being you. 

Who-  
Who else would it be?

Oh hey, maybe it could be that hooded figure over there by the entrance of your apartment building.

.  
.  
.

You snatch Pavel and bolt for the door, overjoyed and eager to see something other than ivy and rubble. You trip over a thick vine of ivy, but catch your balance mid air and continue to the door. You practically blow it off its hinges, as you barrel into it and fly down those stairs as best you can with your ridiculous shoe size.  
Who could it be?  
Your neighbor, Sasha?  
Your good friend, little Kalyana?  
Maybe even your bear friend?  
Oh! Maybe it could even be Byelorussia! Ah, how good it would be to see them!

The last remense of sleep seem to leave your body as you make haste.  
Your heart pounds in your chest, barely noticeable as you sprint as well as you can, to make contact with the black, hooded figure. The rain pelts down on you hard, as you run almost blindly into it. You manage to spot the person, striding slowly into the lobby of your building. 

You can’t help grinning like an idiot, as you approach the building’s entrance. You calm yourself a bit, slowing your step as you get closer, not wanting to seem like I’m too much of a hurry.  
Taking a deep breathe, you push the two doors open. 

The room that servers as a lobby is dark and musty, just like everything else here. Its quiet silence seeping in and from every crack and crevice, feeling almost like a vacuum void of sound. Your now muddy and still soaked shoes scuffle against the floor and make a little noise on the faded carpet from the 70’s, as you walk along the carpet path that leads to the front desk. You look around, confused as to where the person may have slipped away into, remembering that you were not far behind them, when you entered. 

Your knees collapse under you, as an unknown force kicks them in, and you’re promptly man-handled by the collar of your thick, insulated hoodie, thrown against the wall, breathe in your lungs escape you in a sharp puff of air. The back of your head and shoulders smack against the concrete wall, your head having a mind numbing pain that blurs your vision and shoots your ears into ringing. You gasp in pain, exhaling sharply through your teeth, it creates a hissing sound and your breathing becomes shallow as you try and catch it. 

“Name.” A voice barks from above you, relatively close.  
Confused, blind gasps for air is all they get in response, which they are apparently not pleased with. “State your name, now.” The last word is hissed between gritted teeth, from the sound of it. Your be lying if you said the cutting edge harshness of the voice didn’t send your nerves into a frazzled and tangled mess.  
Finally, the tunnel vision clears enough for you to be able to see at least some blurred shapes.  
Someone’s standing over you with some kind of black box with colored bright-lights forming some kind of shape on the black canvas, the nose of a gun aimed right at your forehead. 

You involuntarily chuckle nervously. 

The figure is not impressed and lands a steel-toed boot right in your gut. You sputter and curl over in pain. Gasping harshly, airway not being able to catch up.  
“[RUSSIA; ITS RUSSIA-]” is all you’re able to spit out between gasps. 

“What color is this?” The voice is still harsh, authority lining their words.  
The black box on their face shifts from a bright red into a purple before phasing back into a red. 

“[Purp-Purple??]” You’re shouting with a response, not sure if your answer is even correct, confused by the shift in colors. 

The gun is lowered and then slid into a holster on the right size of their thigh. A silver-colored canteen is handed to you. “It’s just water.” The voice is still cold, but no longer demanding and is comparatively soft, almost friendly.  
You take a swig and let the liquid do it’s magic. Your throat loosens and you take another sip before handing it back to the person. An empty fingerless-gloved hand extends itself, palm open and up.  
The hand lifts you up onto your feet with surprising strength.  
“I’m sorry about that. It’s eh- protocol.”  
You see them, through your blurred vision, walk closer to the front doors and you instinctively follow, clutching your head as it still throbs. 

The bright sun shines a warm, yellow light through the glass that’s still there and blinking a few times, your vision finally clears.  
Well, clears enough. 

A familiar person stands before you. You blink a few more times to make sure you’re not dreaming. 

Hands in their black, thick hoodie pouch, black box of a mask simulating eyes with small, color changing LED bulbs, and an expression of indifference, nonchalance, and thoroughly looking underwhelmed as they look you up and down, once again, United States slouches before you. 

“You look like ass.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which much explaining and adventure unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One year anniversary? One year anniversary.
> 
> Thank you so much to the wonderfully kind comments on the last chapter ;;;;!!! I'm sorry I haven't responded to them, but they're genuinely so kind and sweet-- They mean the absolute world to me, you guys have no idea and aaaaah they inspire me to write more!! I love them, and I hold them close to meeeeee <3
> 
> "Yeah I'll upload every two weeks or something" haahhahaaaaaaa
> 
> ANYWAY, a certain someone convinced me to post this so-  
> here we are
> 
> This literally was done like, by the end of December, 2019, but school was h*ck and my life has been kind of crazy.  
> Forewarning, this isn't a good chapter. I am very much not happy with how this turned out, but I hope you all can enjoy this
> 
> Enjoy your holidays!

You didn’t know you were grinning until it faltered and turned more into a frown.   
“My water got cut off. I have eh,  
“Not shower yet.” Your English sounds thick and slurred, tired and with a deep drawl. 

“I can tell,” looking around, they take a long, drawn out breath. 

You catch yourself staring, and avoid their pixelated gaze as they shift their eyes back to you. Something feels,  
Different about them. Maybe it’s the weird black box on their face? They seem smaller, now. Maybe it’s the aloof air they’re emitting? “I was going to say you lost weight. I take back compliment.”  
Your offhand remark is interrupted as your stomach makes its emptiness verbal. They stifle a grin. 

“Hungry?”

“I guess so.” You try to mimic their relaxed atmosphere.

Pulling the sack-drawstring bag off of their back, they open it with their bare thumb and reach inside. A green-colored silicon-looking sack is in their hand and they pry apart the mouth. They hand you a piece of dried meat, with a deep maroon pigment and a fragrance of some kind of savory marinade.   
“S’just jerky,” they shrug as they see you hesitate. They pop a smaller piece into their mouth. Their eyebrows raise in surprise, as they chew. “Oh yeah; Can’ added some different flavors, too. Just uh,” they point loose-fingered at their mouth, making a half hearted circular motion. “Got a smoked maple bacon. Pretty good, honestly.” 

They swallow their bit and look up at you.   
“So, you gott’a set up ‘round here?”

“I do not,-  
“What do you mean?” You find yourself tipping your head a smidge to the side and feel your eyebrows furrow slightly, as your brain is trying to play catch-up to the best of its ability and you hesitantly tear at the meat. 

“Like, y’know:  
“A camp?” Simple, digital eyes blink up at you expectedly. 

The back of your neck is rubbed with your free hand, your other hand having your piece of jerky, which was a teriyaki-soy sauce flavor; pretty tasty, too.   
“Uh, I uh, I have apartment?” You look unsurely at the Westerner standing beside you, as you both face and look out the wall of glass. Should you tell them you don’t have any amenities…? They’re,... being surprisingly friendly? They even shared some of their sacred food.   
Eh, screw it. “There uh, isn’t much supplies around here.” Your gaze flickers to them for a brief millisecond.   
“I had not eat since until you gave some eh, ‘jerky’,” you make air-quotes with your hands, for emphasis. 

US turns to look at you instead of the surrounding environment, looking at your face for a second, as if searching for something. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Uh, yesterday? I ate lunch but not supper. Then I go sleep after some drink,” your shoulders shrug. 

“‘Drink’, as in, alcoholic?”

“Yes.”

The projected eyes, which you have come to believe are a mimicking of their real eyes and what they're actually doing, narrow and flicker back and forth subtly with the bad frame-rate of their, well, frames.   
“What’s the date?”

Without hesitation, “May 4, 2020.”

Their red eyes flutter a few times and their mouth slacks itself before their eyebrows furrow ever so slightly, causing their atmosphere to feel a touch grave.   
“Russia.” They turn towards you, shoulders straightening and their back rising from its slouched position, looking you square in the eyes.  
“You’ve been gone for five years.”

A pause. 

“It’s 2025.” They hesitate, an inner conflict showing itself from their stuttered and hitched breathes.

“We all thought you were /dead/.” Once again, they look you over, giving a single chuckle of disbelief, a confused smile playing on their face as they hold the back of their head.   
“I didn’t think it was possible,” is mumbled quietly under their breath. 

“So, I haven’t eaten in five years?”

Eyes lost in thought snap back up to your face instead of your chest, which is just at their eye level. “...I guess so, technically?” They pull the jerky pouch out of their hoodie pocket. “Would uh, you like some more?” 

You mumble a “sure” and “thanks” and get a more subtle smoky flavored one, this time. Very tasty.   
They shuffle their boots as you chew, probably feeling just as awkward as you do. 

“F-five years?” They nod.   
“Are,  
“Are you sure?” They nod again, a small ‘yea’ also auditable.   
“Is this joke? Are you toy with me with-with mind game?” Your English seems to become more broken by the minute, voice cracking and wavering, stumbling all over itself as you speak.   
“Tell me you’re joking.” It sounds a lot more demanding than you meant it to, but you don’t care. You need to know—

US blinks up at you. “I wouldn’t mess with you about something like this. I’m being totally straight forward honest with you.” They meet your wavering gaze. “You’ve been MIA for five, count them,” they open their fist and spread out their fingers straight, gloved palm facing you. “Five years, Russia. I think you lost time?”

Five years. 

Five. 

That’s half a decade. 

1825 days. 

You didn’t even think that was possible. 

“Has it been exactly five years?” You already know the answer. 

“Yeah, just over.”

The two pairs of shoes facing each other apparently become very interesting to your gaze as your mind spirals out of control. 

Five years. 

All your thoughts boil down into a simple question:  
What happened?

Apparently you mumble the question out loud, as you hear US sigh lightly. “I guess this is just as good ‘a time as any to ask if you want to come back to HQ with me.”

You barely hear them as your mind is still ringing loudly, everything feeling to be made of a plastic rock-like substance and being pressed in from all sides. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, feel it pumping through your body, notably in your burning up, hot and tingling hands.   
Everything looks cloudy: distant and tainted a dark overcoating. Breathing is audible again, shallow and uneven. A blurry deep blue hand, this time accompanied by a red one, appears in your field of vision, once again. They’re shaking, empty, limp yet tightening to try and grasp something that seems to have never been there in the first place, turning themselves about every once and awhile.   
Everything you know and have known is called into question: your identity, to yourself and others, your home, how it eroded into being that of a generation old, where all of your loved ones went, your drinking habits, how you’ve wasted away so many years of your life to pointless things, what happened to your country as a whole in the years of missing in action, what you missed out on, how you’re a failure of a—

A hand gingerly touches the side of your upper arm. “Hey.”  
The hand doesn’t stay long, maybe two seconds, and it’s soft, but it’s strong enough to snap you out of your spiraling episode and your head snaps up.   
“You okay?” Their voice is soft, showing the most emotion they have all day. 

Strings of incoherent phrases in your mother tongue are mumbled before you manage an “I don’t know,” 

They meet your eyes for a solid five seconds. 

You stand there awkwardly tense, blinking rapidly a few times, teeth clenched tight, hearing your sets grind and groan from the pressure. 

They jerk their head towards the door. “Let’s go,” they open the door, not looking back to see if you follow. 

You do. 

-

“So, what-what happened?”   
It’s been about 30 minutes, from what you guess by looking at your Nokia occasionally, but it feels to have been almost as long as your sleeping spell. It’s been quiet, between the two of you, surprisingly enough. US has almost silently led you through a labyrinth of rubble and vegetation, handing you back the pouch with victuals every once and a while for you to snag a piece of meat to chew on, along with your digesting thoughts.

Nothing makes sense.   
Well, that isn’t entirely true.   
It explains why everything is so, overgrown and dilapidated. It explains a little bit about the dusty state of your apartment and how the water wasn’t going to be turned on anytime soon. It explains why the blood in Babushka’s shop was flaking and was dust when you touched it. It explains how US had a good slot of time to get back into shape.   
What? Someone had to say it. They look good, even if it’s not highlighted with the baggy clothes they don. Not to say-  
They ever didn’t look nice, it’s just, pleasantly surprising to see them care about their physical health again.   
…  
You feel awkward now. Curse your blunt inner thoughts. 

The two of you(and Pavel, of course) scale a hill of crumbled rubble, using whatever you can get your hands on to hoist yourselves up the side of the grey mass of concrete and metal support beams sticking out at odd angles. Your feet slip occasionally, and you have to grip tightly with your hands, which of course, make them sweat, but you make it up without too many problems.   
As you’re quietly cursing your shoe size, your Western companion offers a hand and helps you up, yet again. You thank them casually and quietly, rubbing your hands on your pants to dry them off. It doesn’t work all too well, as your sweats are pretty dusty, but clapping your hands helps well enough. 

The geography of this,... town/city, seems to be built upon a hill; it resembles a lot of what your own little neighborhood looked like: grey with splashes of green well, greenery. It’s a bit more on the modern side, skyscrapers piercing the sky, kissing the grey clouds that have by now stopped pouring. Just like everywhere else, it’s quiet, whistling wind being an old companion. 

“To answer your question,” they pause. “I’m gonna have to ask y’to elaborate.” Walking continues, and you both walk into the first floor of a surrounding building, your route heading West. 

“Oh-,  
“Um,  
“Can you tell me what ha—?”

“Shush.” Their eyebrows furrow, lips grow taught.

“What—?“ before you know what’s happening, your shoulder blades are pressed against the cold stone of a concrete wall, its chill seeping through your jacket, a hand pressed over your mouth firmly, the rest of their forearm pressing against your chest to hold you in place, the other of their hands lifts an index finger and hovers over their lips. 

You decide to comply and /not/ lick their hand, no matter how tempting it is. They have gloves anyway so it’s not like it would have the same effect. 

All you hear is the wind howling sleepily, until,

Slow and rhythmic, heavy and slightly uneven, a set of feet drag itself closer, and closer. 

Something doesn’t feel right. A pulsing fear kindles in your stomach, spreading a tingling feeling through your nervous system. 

It's getting closer. Your hand tightens around Pavel and you silently pray. US only narrows their eyes. 

Before, you couldn’t really tell where the focal point of the noise was, only that it was getting nearer by the step. Now, it seems the dragging has stopped behind your very wall.   
There’s quiet clicking, like that of an insect; low and quietly curious sounding. It’s crisp and surprisingly sharp, almost making your head ring. 

US takes the hand off your mouth and yanks your arm towards them, throwing you to the side as they quickly fall back, away from the wall. You stumble but are quick to get to your feet, Pavel being held in both of your hands, at the ready.   
Not even half a second later, the slab you had your back to breaks apart is a pile of concrete and dust, abruptly broken to fragments from a charging force, whose handy work resembles a wrecking ball. 

“GET BACK.” USA yells at you, deagle in both hands, pointing into the shrieking hole in the wall, which has now been replaced with a grey cloud of rock and dust, along with,... something of unspeakable words. 

You do as you're told, only to bolt forward when you see something blurry burl into your companion you have very conflicting thoughts and emotions about, at the very moment. The States tumbles a couple times, going down with a surprised grunt, ending up almost laying, back down, pearly whites clenched into a struggling grimace, wrestling hands intertwined with-

Oh dear Lord what is that? 

Now is not the time to gawk. It, whatever it is, is bigger than both you and USA, looks like an, well, it could have at one point been an ordinary fleshy human, but has a broken jaw from the right, it hanging from the side it's been unhinged from the face, which you can see, even as it snaps and tries to tear and your companion's face, it has a couple extra fingers, small, nub like potatoes that are stiff and don’t seem to have proper nervous connection, a face mangled beyond any kind of recognition, just to name a few things. The neck has dried, bloody gashes flayed vertically down, infected pods of puss bubbling up from underneath, long yellowed from extensive residence.   
Oh great. You think you can see part of its spine sticking out of the back. Oh fantastic.   
The back, where there isn’t torn, stretched over and soiled clothes, are a forest of what look to be disfigured tumors and mushrooms and other fungi, both looking inflamed and textured with other microbiological bumps and lumps. Oh yes there is also a part of the upper spine popping out with an alarming contrast in color, with the vanilla tinted centipede of a bone structure. The skin acts like a canvas, sagging in some places and pulling taught almost to tearing in others. Pieces of obviously infected skin puff up in deep green, red and blackened gashes, from pieces of rubble and metal protruding from the flesh, and line practically every square inch of the deformed and broken body. 

Red and a surprising amount of saliva pour prosperously from the gaping jaws, spatter about on their unreachable victim beneath it.   
You charge at it, bringing precious Pavel down hard on its thrashing head, kicking hard the side of the torso of ribs popping out like an opened cage. US gets their feet under it as well and the, /thing/, crumpled to the side, curling in on itself before fastening it’s hunting sights on you. 

Oh great. 

It’s on all fours, snarling before howling a gurgled, blood curdling screech is hollered and it bounds towards you.   
Feet apart, hand tightly holding onto your precious pipe, you wait for it, ready to take it on. You even catch yourself grinning a little. 

When it’s about two meters away, a loud pop shakes your being and the beast recoils, stopping abruptly in its tracks. It looks back at you with black, beady eyes, blood thirst and the need for spilled blood on its mutilated hands.   
Another loud bang and you wince yet again from the noise. 

Combat boots make quick walking haste across the smooth, now red colored floor, stopping before the figure. 

Another round is fired into the head. 

…

It’s stopped moving, a fading, pitiful whimper broadcasting from the slit throat. 

Nothing happens for what feels like a few minutes. USA stares down at the thing in all of their blood covered gory glory, holding the pale grey gun in their right hand, tightly but lying to the side. They look back to you, eyes and face void of any crease of feeling.   
“It’s dead.” How can they be so flat?

You sigh, exhaling the stored up air you didn’t know was even in there. “I’m guessing that’s a good thing.”

“Depends. For us, it is.” A sigh. “Such a shame.” They mumble, quiet and listless, lined with,... possibly remorse? “You didn’t do all too bad,” a smirk. “How y’feeling?” Their voice is mellow and soft, heavily contrasting the deep colored blood that drips off of their face. 

“I-  
“/What was that/?” You hear yourself practically shout. You’re smiling, catching your breath and rubbing at the blood that’s trying to dry itself on your skin, but is itching. 

“I’ll tell you on the road. For now, ‘mind doing a little bit of heavy lifting?”

You’re content, for now, chewing on your thoughts and observing the whatever-it-is with curiosity as you both bury it in a bit of the rubble it created when it violently burst through the wall. 

US tilts their head to the side for a second before taking the utility knife from their hip and slicing out an old and faded leather bound wallet from one of the pockets of the beast, cutting the cords of bio-flesh looking silk that held it to the body. They open it, pulling out one faded, rounded edged card, and then another, observing the piece of plastic and then putting it back. Finally, they find what they’re looking for.   
They test words on their lips, mumbling out some phrases and working out the pronunciation.   
The side of their mask is pushed on a specific point on the side, a quiet humming ‘beep’ being the response.   
“Romeo entry.”  
Another soft beep, this time of a cheerful ‘E’ note, you think.   
With a clear, loud voice, “Dmitri Fiodorovich Alexandrov, D.O.B. March 17, 1989, Male adult, Russian, 189 centimeters, 85.73 kilograms.” A small pause. “Blonde and blue-eyed." The same note sings, once again, quiet and soft, as the finger lowers itself from whatever button it was holding down.   
They smile bitter sweetly, sighing through the nose. “Looks like a nice guy, huh?” They show you the card, a rather young, groomed light blonde in a deep blue collared shirt with dusty ocean blue eyes smiles broadly back at you. His eyes crinkle with mischief and good humor, dimples from a genuine smile and thick, dark eyebrows giving a friendly, approachable air. Light freckles dust the long, pointed up at the end nose, pale strawberry blonde eyelashes highlighting the “fun uncle” look he gives the camera. One of the best ID photos you’ve ever seen, if you’re being honest. How do people do it?  
Your heart aches, for murky, unsure reasons, as you look at the “fleshy human”. What happened? How could /this/ happen to such a,... normal looking guy?  
….Are they even the same guy?

“Looks like the kind of guy who will accidentally burn down house with fireworks while showing children how to properly use a lighter.” Both of your voices are hushed. 

“So, your kind of guy?” 

“Well yes, of course.” You smile. “Are you picking on me? Because of what happen at UN party that one time?”

“‘Will neither confirm nor deny.” They smile fondly. “It was fun to see you, back when you were red, t’look all confused an’stuff. Still makes me laugh to think about to this day.” 

“But do you remember how UN look? They look like they were expecting it but still was lost.” They chuckle a genuine sounding laugh. 

“You and PB had been slamming so much sparkling potato juice, I’m surprised you guys only set the gazebo and shed on fire.”

“Hey hey, it was accident. I am just happy ‘Pol’sha’ was not avoiding me and would do fireworks. It was fun night. I had fun. Plus I built new weird water hut for UN, bigger and better! I even made place for ladder and attachable slide onto roof into lake!”

“Wait wait, how am I just now finding out about this?”

“What, weird water hut has lake?”

“No no, the /slide/.”

“I,... thought everyone knew?”

“Well I sure wasn’t told,” they click their tongue and shake their head. “You let me down, Red. I feel down right excluded.” You bristle a little at the old nickname you’d rather not be associated with, a small spark of anger being struck, but you ignore it and smother it of oxygen as best you can.   
You’re not going to let this surprisingly easy conversation be muddled by your pride and past grievances. 

“Well, now you know and can go on next time.” You freeze and meet their eyes, as US puts the driver’s license back into its slot. “How-How is UN?”

They scrunch up their face in thought, “Not too bad? They’re a bit,..... different now. Not in, a bad way, in my opinion, I rather like this ‘version’ of them but, be prepared. Some of us have uh, changed, a little. Y’know like, had some uh, changes in figure?” 

“Yes, I think I know what you mean.” You most definitely know what they mean. 

“Yeah so, UN is one of those people. Still a delight to be around, but,” they grunt in effort as they lift a chunk of rubble with their legs. “kind of a bit more, clingy.”  
You follow suit, grunting in understanding as they finish their thoughts and go to place the once liquid-esk stone. 

Rubble is once again piled on, completing the mound, hiding the corpse of,... one that seemed to have been already dead, even when you found him. 

The improvised dog-tags are pulled out of US’ back pocket. They look at the wallet for a second, head low, eyes low, spirits low.   
It’s placed on one of the flat, upward facing sides of the broken rock, laying like a marker on its centerpiece throne. 

They sigh, as they observe your handy work, grimy hands propping themselves on their hips.   
“We should get going again. I need food.”

“Like that guy?”

“Nah I’m not gonna be eatin’ any human beings today. Just whatever I can mooch off of whoever.”

“Glad to see you haven’t changed all too much,” they roll their eyes, picking up their bag and grinning. 

“It was more of a joke; bunch ‘a people just, cook and bake and leave it out for everyone to eat, since they’re bored. I don’t understand how you could be, since there’s so much you could be doing instead, but i mean, food is a way of preserving culture and I have no objection to that. Plus, good food, guaranteed, ‘round the clock. Legitimately, paradise.” Like a conductor for a symphony, they draw out the ending note with nimble, pinched fingers. “Well, can’t eat what’s not in front ‘a you. Let’s go.”

“So uh, are you going to me tell what, thing, was?” The words are uttered carefully, like you worry you may get a handgun pulled on you if you slip up.

“Are you good enough in the head to listen?” You do your best to catch up to their easy stride and walk beside them. 

“Yes-yes I think so?”

“Y’dont sound too confident.”

“Just-  
“Please?”

They give you a subtle, playful sideways smirk before huffing with a “fine, fine”. 

There’s a break of silence before their face turns wooden and grave, no trace of emotion anywhere on their face. You could have sworn the red on their mask went dimmer and more desaturated. “A lot has happened, since you’ve been gone.” Their voice is quiet, but not soft and friendly. 

“I can tell that much.” The thought of being gone for five years still hasn’t seemed to have seeped in yet. 

“When we get back, some people you know may not be there. There’s um, been a uh,...  
“Remember the plague?”

“How could I forget?” You answer cautiously. 

“So,....  
“I guess the good news is, of us, y’know country bein’s, there’s still a lot of us. Bad news is, it’s been a bit harder on the ordinary, fleshy ones.”

“What-what is ‘it’?”

“I’ll get to that, give me a moment.” They hesitate.   
“Over half of the ordinary humans have, perished.”

You’re silent. 

“There’s, almost all of us countries are still uh, alive, with some scrapes and bruises, but alive, nonetheless. With you, that adds one more.” 

“What happened?” Your voice is quiet, gruff, hard, threatening. When met with tense, probably pondering silence, “So help me God-  
“/What did you do/?” Your finger nails dig into your palms. Emotion lines your cracking words. You take a step forward. 

“I didn’t do anything.” Their hands are in their hoodie pocket, totally unfazed by your threat. 

Your hands grab their hoodie collar roughly, forcing them to look directly into your face. You don’t lift them off of the ground of street asphalt, but you may. “I don’t believe you.” Their eyebrows tilt down slightly. 

“Again, I did,” their hands come up between your arms, palms and fingers together, before separating and pushing against your inner arm. It isn’t strong but it forces your hands from their neck and you let go. They complete the motion of a semi circle as if it was just a hand movement used for emphasizing their words. “Nothing.”  
You take a step back, scoffing lightly and trying to keep your hands to not ball up into a fist. 

“I know you- you’re not the type to sit on side and do nothing you always--“

“Can you just listen, for one damn second?”   
You decide to shut up and hear them out.  
“I,” they point to their chest, “did,” they pronounce the word /extra/ clearly, “nothing,” more emphasis and almost the same hand movements from before.   
“Well, in terms of starting off this whole fiasco.”  
There isn’t impatience or bite to their voice, like when you were being interrogated, but there is serious confidence and mild unchallengeable authority, so you decide not to push them around too much.   
A sigh; “Just when I thought I had finally become immune to prodding.” They smirk, “You come back from the dead.”

“I was never dead.” A pause.   
“...Was I?”

“Don’t ask me, man. I couldn’t tell ya’.”

Another uncomfortable pause. “I’m sorry. For-   
“lashing out. That was dumb and I am, sorry.”

“No worries. I’ll probably get you back later.” They smirk easily.  
Almost immediately, it seems to go away just as fast as it appeared. They pull off the silver water canister from their hip.   
“Things have changed, since you were last conscious, Russia.” A slow stride is once again cranked into motion. “I guess I’ll just start with the most prominent one.   
“To put it simply,   
“zombie apocalypse.”

They sip from their water canteen and leave the statement totally out in the open, no context, no emotion, no elaboration. 

“Pardon?”

“Remember Chernobyl?”

You wince a little, despite your personal preference. “....I could never forget.”

The mouth of the container pops and sings a low note from released pressure. USA looks you dead in the eyes. “Mutants.”

Mutants. 

Zombies. 

Zombie mutants. 

/Of course! Why did you not think of that before?/

“What? How? Is the Ukraine okay?” Your hands become restless and you fold your arms to try and restrain yourself and your excitement. 

“Ukraine is, actually not too bad. The person, I mean. Both are fine. Well, better than we all expected.”

“Is-Is Ukraine at ‘HQ’?” The taste of iron seeps into your mouth as you bite down on the tender inside of your lip. 

“Nah; they with Canada, uuuuh, ‘SK’, I think PB was there, too, Colombia, Buuuuurmaaa….? Yeah-  
“Bunch’a people. Anyway, no, but they’ll be back at the ‘Q’ in like, I think tomorrow, actually. They were going to like, a diplomatic meeting or something over in Mongolia’s clay. But yeah, a lot of us live ‘n HQ; lots of Europeans and Westies, though. Some African buddies, too. Also some Asians that hop locations a bit, hence why homeslice-SK is there. The other main like, ‘camp’, is in near southern Mongolia.” Sip of water. “I’m just mighty thankful we have so many names under the ‘alive’ column. Really, it makes me feel terribly blessed,” a bit of their southern twang slips through the last couple phrases before they cough into their arm and it returns back to “normal”.   
“But yeah. You should see some familiar faces when we get there.”

You grunt in understanding and continue your trek. 

For the last,.... awhile, the two of you have been passing through a forest of temperate and evergreen. Life is all around you two, from the rustling deep green leaves, to the trilling of birds, you feel a lot less lonely now. Maybe, having another set of shoes disrupting the mellow soundtrack helps a bit.   
This version of the ‘States is,... rather pleasant to be around. Of course, you miss the loudmouth, obnoxious, condescending one too a little, even if you found them incredibly annoying, but you think you can get used to the idea of having this one around for a bit. They’re collected and almost rational, thinking through intended meanings behind words and usually quiet. It reminds you of when they were younger, maybe,....even right up to after the second World War, where they just kind of, existed. They were quiet and would usually avoid getting into other people’s affairs for the most part. Relatively kind and open, for the time, and pleasant to hang out with. Also a very good dancer. May not have been your style, but it was always fun to watch them get restless when upbeat swing and jazz would find its way onto the instruments of hosting bands for banquets and balls and other frivolous get-togethers so many of you were forced into.

Birds sing to one another, back and forth, whistling and gossiping about you two as you trespass in their territories. A large, deep breath fills your lungs, and you hold it, soaking in the life of a filled, organic jungle, versus a dead, empty concrete jungle. 

“Y’missed it?”

“Hm?”

“Feeling life around you.”

“Admittedly, yes.” A comfortable silence.   
“Despite what you probably think, I like being around life.”

“What? Stone faced and unmoving Russia liking something other than oppressive dictators, sharing, and vodka? This is heresy and you will be hearing from my lawyer.” They fold their arms and stick their nose in the air indignantly.   
You roll your eyes and scoff.   
They hold the pose for a second before relaxing and punching you sloppily and lightly in the arm “Dude, I’m just messing with you.” You hold your grave frown. They sigh. “I’m sorry for bein’ rude, sleeping beauty.”

You give them a look of exaggerated disgust. “‘Sleeping beauty’?”

“Yes, that is you. Except nobody kissed ya’ to wake you up because you’re actually not beautiful.” You frown, this time from sadness. They smile mischievously before breaking into a relaxed laugh. “Your face oh my-“  
Frowning scornfully you huff and turn heel and walk back the way you came. “Wait wait no no-“ they choke on their own laughs a bit. “I’m sorry, Russia I was joking wait-“ you purposefully widen your steps. “Please I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it-“ they trot to catch up to you.   
“Russia, I’m sorry please don’t go back. If I say you’re beautiful will you please forgive me?” You decide to entertain them a little. The same heel is planted and you stop in your tracks, you turn to look at them, looking totally unamused and bobbing and tilting your head to one side, scanning them up and down with narrow eyes. 

“Perhaps.”

With shaky breaths, the short offender shakily takes a deep breath and closes their eyes. They open and, “Russia, I think you are a very beautiful person. I’m sorry; I hope you can forgive me and be my plus one back to HQ.” They make it all the way through their words, not cracking a smile, grave sincerity and humility edging their soft and earnest voice. A smile is stifled and a snicker cracks in their throat, the longer they keep eye contact. A happy grin lines their “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  
You hate yourself for cracking your facade and grinning too. You thought they had matured, but here they are poking at you, just like before. Well, actually this is pretty lowkey compared to what you used to hurl at each other. Their voice was barely even a normal talking tone, versus their shrill, ear-piercing screaming from years ago. 

You sigh. “Fine. Apology accepted. I’m only coming along because I want food.”

“More than a valid enough reason for me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for that horrible ending oh my gosh-  
> Special thanks to my dad who taught me how to get out of a strangle-hold whatever it's called when I was in the fourth grade :sunglasses:
> 
> Bet you guys didn't expect a lame zombie apocalypse now, did you mwahahahahhahaaaaaaaaaaaaa  
> I find it kind of funny, as i was reading back on this, with all of the dates and the C*VID lifestyle we've all seemed to adopt ahahah
> 
> I have no idea if I want to continue this so, SEE YOU GUYS NEXT YEAR WOOOOOOOOOOO  
> No but seriously, I have no idea. I have an outline for the story, so maybe I'll just try and tackle this, yet again. Who knows  
> If i continue this, I'll do some universe explaining in the chapters wooooooo
> 
> I hope this was at least enjoyable to read! Enjoy your night/morning <3

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, 
> 
> This was /originally/ supposed to be like my Switzerland/Neutrality fic where it’s just, absolute nonsense and a quick one shot but,
> 
> It went to being a one shot I was going to actually try to write with consistent grammar, to a couple chapter fic, to a 5 chapter fic, to a 10 chapter fic , and finally,  
> Friggen’ 11 chapters of this bologna.
> 
> You’re welcome.
> 
> I may even end up adding more I don’t know.
> 
> I planned on adding some illustrations for each chapter, but am currently posting this from my phone, as I’m in Cali at the moment, visiting family.  
> I’ll attach some later, as a I get a chance to sketch some probably terrible character sketches on my phone.
> 
> I will be elaborating a bit about the universe and some other things in the next chapter and in those notes, so >:3
> 
> Thanks for reading this :DD !!  
> I didn’t get to add all of the little things I was planning to in this chapter, as I kept forgetting them as I’d wrote, but I hope it was at least enjoyable and you stick around for a little bit !!  
> Also I’m sorry, but updates will be slow, as I’m a slow writer and real life stuff is my priority :’33
> 
> If you have any comments, please please /please/ tell me ! I’d love to read them and if it’s feedback/criticism, address it and maybe use it :))
> 
> Anyway, have a nice day, my friends!!  
> -BreadedAndFried


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